


And The Days, They Fly So Fast

by KuriNCIS (KuriKoer)



Series: Wake Up Call [4]
Category: NCIS
Genre: Age, BDSM, Boots - Freeform, Dom/sub, Establishing Relationship, M/M, public, shoe fetish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuriKoer/pseuds/KuriNCIS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens <i>after</i> the morning after?</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Days, They Fly So Fast

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth in the series, takes place immediately after the third part. Published between S8 and S9.

That night after work Palmer knocked on Gibbs' door carrying a six pack and a hope. They watched a game for all of ten minutes before Gibbs turned his head and said, "You don't really like this," and Palmer said, "Huh?", and then apologized, "I stopped paying attention a while ago."

It was less than ten more minutes before Palmer was naked on the couch and under an equally naked Gibbs, and that was when he noticed the blinds were drawn, had been when he arrived. It made him smile a little and Gibbs chased that smile away with biting kisses, and Palmer moaned and arched up.

It was maybe thirty minutes after that when Palmer threw his head back and voiced his bliss with a long, post-orgasmic exhale. Gibbs' face was still buried in the crook of his neck, ever since his own rocking orgasm; they were both doing their version of basking.

"No gardening?", Palmer said after a few minutes more. He did notice the boots still standing by the door when he came in, but he said nothing. It was already after dark.

"Worked too late," Gibbs muttered. "Maybe tomorrow morning. Day off. If there's no new case."

"If there's no new case," Palmer echoed. He shifted uncomfortably, not because of Gibbs' weight, which he revelled in, or the wet, sticky mess between them, which he didn't mind at all despite the cooling viscosity of it. He shifted because Gibbs said 'tomorrow morning'. He couldn't imagine driving back home now and back here tomorrow.

Gibbs lifted his head. "The couch, the bed down here," he paused, "or upstairs with me."

Palmer thought his grin would split his face. "Upstairs with you."

\--

The next morning, Palmer got fucked. It was slow and sensuous, almost lazy in the time it took, Gibbs' deliberate, sweet strokes pushing inside him, Gibbs' tongue on his neck. The upper floor bedroom, which Palmer thought was the main, was awash with sunlight, and the crisp white of the down covers felt incredibly pristine. It was almost a pleasure in its own right to dirty it, to arch back and feel the print of his sweat-soaked skin along the sheet; to lie down, chest covered in come, legs like jelly, and wait for Gibbs to clean him up a bit before he rolled on his side and felt a hesitant arm around him. Palmer burrowed back, snuggling, and he wasn't met with resistance.

And again he had a slow morning and too much coffee after it, but Gibbs made no signs of wishing he was gone. Palmer was very conscious of any hints of impatience, of irritation, but Gibbs was mild and almost friendly, in his own gruff way. Whatever else was happening, Palmer wasn't about to get kicked out.

He left at noon, buttoning his shirt over the red, round marks that covered his chest, marks exactly the size of Gibbs' mouth. He couldn't stop smiling.

They hadn't gone out to the garden, because Gibbs said he wanted Palmer naked the whole time they had together that day.

\--

It was three more days before they could meet again - Palmer tied to the bed in thick, buckled leather restraints, spreadeagled, not wondering for a moment why Gibbs had those, panting for release - and a week before they had time to putter around Gibbs' yard, which by then was covered with weeds.

"This time of year," Gibbs said by way of explanation, shrugging.

Palmer followed him around from flowerbed to tree to flowerbed, obeying orders.

"Hold that."  
"Bring me this."  
"Dig a little in here, and then..."

It was comfortably like assisting at an autopsy. His eyes fixed on Gibbs' ass in frayed, faded blue jeans, and on his brown boots.

"Not the pair I take to work," Gibbs had said before. Didn't say, because the other ones had blood and guts on them. I want these, different ones, clean with the mud and grass stains, but with nothing else.

Nothing yet.

And after, on the low wooden chair in the back yard, Gibbs leaning back and drinking cold lemonade, watching the beautiful day and the sun playing in the leaves. Watching Palmer under his feet, sprawled on the deck, denim smudged on the knees but also higher up, where Gibbs' boots had left their mark. He rubbed his heel down and Palmer groaned.

He may have dozed off. Palmer shifted under his feet.

Gibbs opened his eyes. "Had enough?"

"Umm." Palmer was obviously conflicted. Gibbs made the decision. Had enough, _for now_.

"Get inside."

Just inside the kitchen, empty glass forgotten on the counter by his hand, leaning back and holding tight onto the edge. Palmer squatting between his legs, clothes thrown off in a hurry, naked and kissing his inner thigh and murmuring something, fingers running on the scuffed leather of Gibbs' left boot.

"Not bad," Gibbs said.

"This is incredible," Palmer panted. And Gibbs lifted his right foot and nudged Palmer's chest, gently, barely touching. Palmer went back and flat, knees still under him and back arched.

Gibbs was impressed. "Didn't know you could do that."

Palmer started explaining something about yoga and Gibbs pressed his boot down. The words died in that expressive mouth and only moans came out and Gibbs pressed down harder still. Palmer's hand went frantic to his cock.

"Hold back.... hold on."

It was ten more minutes before the leather had a whole new set of stains on it.

\--

First time in Palmer's apartment and he was so nervous. It wasn't exactly a student's dorm, but it wasn't far enough from it, Palmer thought; bed rumpled, sheets he brought from his mother's house. Textbooks everywhere. Ramen in the kitchen bin.

All forgotten completely when Gibbs pulled him in for a kiss, backed him up against his own bed. All entirely invisible to him shortly after, when all he could see was Gibbs' head thrown back, dark colour high in his cheeks, and he was sliding in and out of the man, lost in pleasure and admiration, and Gibbs pushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead and gasped and arched and pulled him in with his heels on Palmer's ass.

Later, out in the hallway, Gibbs leaned against the wall while Palmer took care of three locks, and a neighbour peeked out. Took a long look at Gibbs, which Gibbs returned, indifferent.

Loud tone, ringing in the corridor. "Who's that, then? Your dad?"

"No." Palmer, red in the face, looked down on the keys in his hands. Tried to turn the last one of them.

"A friend," Gibbs said shortly. And Palmer felt warmth at that.

Later, in his car, driving back to Gibbs', he glanced apprehensively at the other man.

"They think I'm younger than I really am," he said, valiantly pretending that's what happened, "because I still live alone."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's the problem," Gibbs said dryly, the sarcasm heavy in his words. "Look, people are gonna stare. Just the way it's gonna be."

"I don't really give a crap about what people do," Palmer said, throwing Gibbs' own words back at him.

And Gibbs smiled. "That's good," was all he said.

\--

It was a little awkward at work, but it helped Palmer that Gibbs largely ignored him.

Most of the day they wouldn’t see each other, though being with Ducky in close quarters for hours wasn't that much better, not with everything Gibbs had said about him, dark warm voice in dark warm nights under a blanket with his hand on Palmer's cock; not with everything unsaid but insinuated. Not with the way Gibbs would dredge up the name to shake Palmer to the core, hinting to all kinds of illicit things Ducky can do, had done, will do. Palmer never knew if Gibbs was teasing him, or if he really had done all those things. His eyes followed the line of the ME's back to distraction, or he'd stare at the man's mouth instead of listening to what he was saying, especially in the first few days; or he'd look into Ducky's eyes and sigh to himself, which would cause the ME to huff in irritation and call his assistant on it. But that too calmed, and Palmer found a way to glance sideways at Ducky that was less conspicuous. Or maybe the ME just decided to ignore his frivolity.

And then Gibbs would storm in. And Palmer was uncomfortable about it, at first, and intensely turned on, but Gibbs almost always ignored him until the very last moment. Or they'd meet on a crime scene, and Gibbs would be entirely focused on the matter at hand, barking orders at his team, and his eyes would flit over Palmer, pausing for a moment, brightening, and then they'd slip away and he'd be as brisk as ever, heading away from Palmer. And that was easy. Palmer had things to focus on, too.

But sometimes Gibbs would be down in autopsy, listening patiently while Ducky took his time to get to a point. Palmer would stand behind Ducky and watch their interaction, watch Ducky’s amused, wry smile meeting Gibbs' tight, restless energy head on, and he’d be a little overwhelmed. Or, and this happened more than once, Gibbs would arrive and Ducky would be elsewhere, and Palmer, if his hands were clean, would attach himself so firmly to Gibbs that the agent could barely break the kiss to mumble in his ear, "We're at work."

And Palmer would moan, "Yes."

And Gibbs would smirk a little, which Palmer felt against the side of his face, and whisper again, "And if Ducky comes in?"

That was usually enough for Palmer to make loud sounds that echoed in the large room, reverberating against the freezers and the metal slabs. And invariably, Gibbs would squeeze him one last time and step away. And Ducky would walk in a moment later, oblivious, although Palmer was sure his moan could still be heard somehow, and his cheeks were burning, and his cock refused to settle. But Gibbs, despite the smirk, was always compassionate, and when he teased, he always made it up to Palmer later. 

\--

He received three more head slaps at work during the next month. One of approval, having discovered some residue on the victim's eyelashes; one of tolerant discontent, when he unthinkingly reached to touch Gibbs in Abby's lab; and one, most memorable, when a particular death in a field full of beehives made him too nervous to approach the corpse. The others huddled in the field, laughing, no doubt, over his fear. Gibbs walked him behind a group of trees, and very slowly, very calmly, slapped the back of his head. And left his hand there, like he did that first time, caressing his hair. Palmer blinked several times; Gibbs blurred before his eyes.

"You're doing okay, Jimmy," Gibbs whispered. "Go be with Ducky."

And it wasn't hot. It was just calming. It was just perfect. Palmer picked up his bag and went silently, obediently, and completely devoid of fear, to assist the doctor in his preliminary examination and prepare the body to be transported. He hadn't looked twice at the row of hives again.

\--

"A month," Palmer sighed in deep content, settling back against Gibbs. His lips tingled with an afternoon of kisses.

"You keeping anniversaries now?", Gibbs grumbled.

"No," Palmer hurried to deny, "I just happened to remember the date."

Gibbs chuckled and tightened his arms around him, kissing the top of his head. The white down covers were at the bottom of the bed, kicked there earlier. The room was warm enough between them.

"Been a good month," he said quietly.


End file.
